


Light's Out of Sight

by HewerOfCaves



Series: Canon Divergence AU [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Burns, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Memory Loss, Past Torture, Post-War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 20:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20297761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: Maglor had no response that would satisfy his brother. Looking for a distraction, he reached for the box with the Silmaril, but Maedhros recoiled, clutching it tighter. Maglor froze, taken aback.“Put it down, will you, Nelyo?” he said gently, “Let’s open it.”





	1. Maglor

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, not a native speaker. Title from the best Blind Guardian song.

Beleriand was drawing its last torturous breath. Ash was twirling in the air in a mournful dance. The jagged coastline they were walking along was new and already crumbling, the ground under their feet opening in twisted rivers of fire. They flowed into the sea, singing a dissonant dirge for the dying continent.

His brother had not said a word ever since they were thrown out from the Valarin camp without being allowed to approach Fingon. Maedhros was walking forward, his steps shaky but determined, the casket with the Silmarils clutched tightly under his right arm.  
  
Maglor didn’t know where they were going and didn’t care enough to ask. Their attack on the camp had burnt all the bridges he had hoped to cross. He followed Maedhros as he had always done. 

His brother was staring ahead with unseeing eyes. Maglor expected that he would drop down in exhaustion any moment, but Maedhros kept walking until he stumbled on a protruding rock. Maglor moved too late to catch him. Maedhros fell, but supported himself on his left arm, never letting go of the casket. He slumped on the shaking ground and didn’t move.

Maglor knelt next to him. “Maedhros,” he said. He didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one. 

"Maedhros… Nelyo, can you hear me?”

Maedhros didn’t look at him. Maglor waited patiently but was still startled when his brother spoke.

“He was in Angband,” Maedhros said.

Maglor didn’t deny it, even if he wished dearly he could. 

Still, Maedhros insisted. “He was,” he said with quiet fervor, “Did you see how he looked? You saw him. He was there. He had been there since the battle.”

“You didn’t know,” Maglor said, “You couldn’t have known. We thought he was dead.”

Maedhros laughed, hollow and cold, and shook his head.

“It is different,” Maglor said, “We were sure he was dead. We received reports of his death, we had received none of yours. It is not the same. You couldn’t have known.”

“All these years,” Maedhros said, “How long has it been? Over a hundred years? He was there all this time.”

Maglor had no response that would satisfy his brother. Looking for a distraction, he reached for the box with the Silmaril, but Maedhros recoiled, clutching it tighter. Maglor froze, taken aback.

“Put it down, will you, Nelyo?” he said gently, “Let’s open it.”

He had inadvertently adopted a tone he had usually used with the children. He carefully pushed that thought away before the pain could overwhelm him. 

Maedhros seemingly didn’t notice or didn’t mind the tone. He put the casket down and opened it slowly. 

The light was so bright that Maglor had to shield his eyes. He heard his brother draw a breath. He schooled his features into a smile and looked back at Maedhros.

“We did it, Nelyo,” he said, “We finally did it. See? Two Simarils for the two of us. One for each. Let’s take them, shall we?”

Maedhros raised his head and nodded once. They reached for the jewels simultaneously.

Maglor’s very essence exploded in a pain he had never known before. Not only his hand but his entire being was on fire. It raged in his mind and his body, blinding him and deafening him to his own screams. He could not let go of the jewel. Through blurred eyes, he saw his brother scramble away. He got to his feet, still burning. He couldn’t think of anything but the pain. He ran and ran until his feet felt water underneath. Gathering his remaining strength, he raised his hand and threw the Silmaril as far as he could. Then he collapsed on the shore, sobbing. 

He didn’t know how much time had passed. The pain was still unbearable, but now it was contained to his hand. Thoughts returned to his mind one by one. His first urge was to throw himself into the sea, to go after the Silmaril, to find it again. He would have done it if had any strength left, but he didn’t, so he stayed still. After a while, he remembered his brother and jolted up, suddenly realizing what Maedhros was going to do. What he might have already done. 

He stood on shaking legs. Cradling his right arm with the left one, he climbed up, his frantic eyes looking for Maedhros. He came to a halt when he saw his brother kneeling on the edge of a chasm, trembling. The light of the fire was painting the hair falling over his face blood red, but he was there and he was alive. 

Relief hit Maglor with a staggering force. Tears ran down his face unbidden. He stood and looked, and it took him a while to notice another figure sitting next to his brother, his hand on Maedhros’s shaking shoulder.


	2. Fingon

Slipping out of the camp wasn’t hard. Findekáno (he found great joy in repeating his name over and over) had learned how to turn himself inconspicuous. It was a necessary skill that had saved his life many times. He felt guilty for abandoning the ones who had been so kind to him, but he had to find Russandol.

He hadn’t resisted when they had pulled him away from Russandol. Resisting never did any good. He had listened to what they had to say and had nodded when asked if he understood. Russandol and his brothers had done terrible things according to the stories. Findekáno himself had seen the bodies of the guards and had seen them leaving with the cursed jewels, and yet he could not reconcile those stories with the memories he had of Russandol. In his memories, Russandol was kind and smiling. It made Findekáno warmer inside than the meals he had been given recently. And Russandol had made him remember. His memories were very few and hazy, but it was better than complete oblivion. So he had gathered what medical supplies he could and had left.

He didn’t know where Russandol was going, but the most logical option seemed following the coastline. He walked as fast as he could. His leg protested, but he paid it no mind. It had hurt worse before and he had been allowed no rest. He had survived that. He would survive this.

The longer he walked, the more doubts started to torment him. What if he couldn’t find Russandol? What then? Would they take him back in the camp after he had escaped? He had no weapon. What if he met one of his captors? He had gotten used to the routine of suffering, but now that he had remembered his name, had remembered what kindness was, had remembered Russandol, the thought of going back to it was unbearable.

He shuddered, the shaking ground and the ash making him nauseous. The old injury on his head flared up again. No, he couldn’t go back. He would find Russandol because he remembered him and he wanted to remember more. 

He walked on and finally spotted Russandol and his brother in the distance. He knew the brother’s name too. Maka… Makalaurë. He heard Russandol call that name affectionately from beyond the ages.

He hurried forward. He thought about calling out, but his throat was clogged up and he was too scared they wouldn’t turn to look.

His heart lurched when Russandol suddenly collapsed. Findekáno started running, his leg screaming in pain and still ignored. Makalaurë sat next to Russandol. They talked, and suddenly there was light, the terrible light of the jewels. Findekáno let out a wordless cry and cowered on the ground, hiding his head behind his arms. The light meant no good, it meant all-encompassing terror, it meant cold and it meant pain. He stayed on the ground, trembling, until he heard an ear-splitting scream. Then, terror forgotten, he clambered to his feet and ran. He couldn’t make out if it was Makalaurë or Russandol screaming, but the sound reverberated and amplified inside his head. He was afraid he would shatter, break into pieces before he could reach Russandol. Tears of pain sprang to his eyes. He kept running.

Makalaurë wasn’t there, though Findekáno could still hear him. Russandol was. He was standing on the edge of a chasm, his breath coming out in painful, shaky sobs. In his hand, he held the jewel.

Findekáno found his voice. “Russandol!” he called.

Russandol turned to him, his eyes wide and frenzied.

“Drop it,” Findekáno pleaded, shielding his face from the light.

Russandol did. He opened his hand, and the jewel fell down into the chasm, the terrible light disappearing. Findekáno let out a breath of relief.

Russandol fell to his knees. His hand stretched to the chasm. Findekáno hurried to him and caught his arm. Russandol’s hand burns were the worst Findekáno had ever seen. He took out a salve the healers had used for his wounds. He didn’t know if it would help, but trying wouldn’t hurt.

He sat down next to Russandol, pulling his arm into his lap. Russandol let him treat the burns without protesting, though his shoulders were shaking and he was biting his lips painfully.

“What are you doing here?” he rasped suddenly, startling Findekáno, “Why have you come?”

Findekáno shrugged. “I remembered you,” he said, “Not everything, but… I remembered my childhood? There was a hill that I wanted to climb. No one would come with me except you. That happened, right?”

“Yes,” Russandol said. His voice broke. “You weren’t allowed to go alone, so I said I would accompany you. It was a dangerous hill for climbing.”

“It was. I fell,” Findekáno continued, unsure, “But you caught me, yes?”

“Eventually,” Russandol said. Findekáno couldn’t tell if he was laughing or sobbing. “You went tumbling down. I ran after you. You had scrapes and bruises and you had dislocated a shoulder. You were so upset. It took me long to comfort you.”

“I-I remember I was scared. I had never been so badly hurt and I… I just remembered, I thought I had failed your trust. But you-you said that it would be all right. And it was. For a while at least, everything was good, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Russandol said, “It was.”

Findekáno could tell that it took nearly all his strength to speak. He put his hand on Russandol’s upper arm. Russandol looked at him with bloodshot, desperate eyes. Findekáno tried to smile and found that he remembered how to. 

“It will be all right again,” he said.


End file.
